


Excavation

by MoanDiary



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha digs up parts of Bucky Barnes that Steve would never be able to unearth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afternoons

It all kept coming back to Skip.

Skip was a regular at Pearl’s, the diner a block down from Natasha’s apartment in D.C.  An old-timer, and the embodiment of everything you’d associate with that term. He ate the same tuna sandwich and the same slice of Pearl’s famous cherry pie every day and sat in the same corner booth by the window. He flirted with the waitresses and used the same old-fashioned lines on every woman he came across. He wore the same high-waisted trousers and slicked his thin white hair to the side with pomade.

He called Natasha “Red” whenever she dropped in for a cup of coffee. “They tell me that red means ’stop,’ but I’m colorblind.” He’d say, his face creasing in a smile. Or “You’re as pretty as a water fountain in the Sahara, Red.”

The quaint, friendly flirting was a world away from the lewd suggestions, groping, and aggression Natasha had to deal with in her work, and it charmed her. World Wars aside, the 1940’s seemed like they must have been a much better era to be wooed in. More civil.

Anyway, her thoughts turned to Skip a lot in the months after Steve found the Soldier. Or the Soldier allowed himself to be found. Natasha was fairly certain Steve’s investigative skills had little to do with it. 

Barnes moved into the Captain’s spare bedroom and Steve, in his godforsaken humble and self-effacing way, had asked Natasha if she could stop in and keep an eye on the Soldier when Steve needed to leave on missions.

“A lot of times he just talks in Russian and I can’t figure out a word of it,” Steve admitted. “And I think you probably understand what he went through better than I do. Reminiscing about childhood memories only goes so far,” he added ruefully.

Of course Natasha agrees, because of the debt, and the unspoken plea in his sad-puppy blue eyes.

* * *

 

Natasha had learned the lesson (a hard lesson, like every lesson that mattered) years ago to always listen to your fear. Fear tells you how to stay alive. And so it went against all of her instincts to enter Steve’s apartment the first day he needed her to babysit. To spend any amount of time in close quarters with Hydra’s deadliest weapon was madness. But she owed Steve, and Steve trusted her to be able to handle it.

“Great! You’re here.” Steve said breathlessly as he pulled open the door and ushered her inside. Immediately he returned to rushing around, finishing packing and making sure everything was set up for his time away. He was clearly nervous. That made two of them. Natasha surveyed the area and quickly concluded that the Soldier was in the back room. Silent and invisible, compared to the Captain’s star-spangled whirlwind of energy.

“I’m probably going to be gone for about three days. I won’t be in cell phone contact, but if you need me, call Tony and he’ll be able to pass any information along. Bucky’s been pretty quiet the past few days, so you might not even see him. There should be plenty of food in the fridge. Ah…” He shouldered his duffle bag and looked around one more time, catching his breath. “Is there anything else I missed?”

“I got it, Cap. Don’t worry,” she said. “I can handle this kind of thing.” Was she reassuring him or herself?

“Thank you, Nat. Really. You’re a good friend,” he said earnestly, squeezing her shoulder. As he strode out the doorway and down the hall, he shouted over his shoulder “I owe you one!”

She closed the door, and the apartment was suddenly very silent. Natasha stood still for a moment and listened, but there were no signs of movement from the back room. She took a few deep breaths to calm her nerves and then settled on Steve’s couch. She considered and rejected Steve’s very modestly sized TV (“If I want to go to the pictures, I’ll go to the pictures! Who needs a screen that big in their house?”) and instead pulled a novel from her bag. It was a copy of Bulgakov’s _The Master and Margarita_ in Russian, one of her favorites, and let the hours steadily melt past.

Eventually the sun started to set and as the words on the page began to blur in the fading light, she set down the book and acknowledged her stomach’s mild entreaties. In the kitchen, she stopped again to listen for signs of life from Barnes, but all was still quiet on the Bucky front. Nonetheless, a light prickling on the back of her neck reassured her that she was not alone in the apartment.

Steve’s pantry was well-stocked. He must have a grocery delivery service since she knew he still was easily overwhelmed by supermarkets. She found a nice-looking steak in the fridge and heated up Steve’s cast iron skillet. In a few minutes it was sizzling away and the rich aroma of red meat filled the air. 

Like magic, she heard the door down the hall open.

She couldn’t hear his footsteps, but the air changed subtly in the kitchen. She forced herself to move casually and non-threateningly as she turned from the skillet to look.

There he was, the Winter Soldier. Much smaller-seeming in track pants and a sweatshirt, but still intimidating. He held himself cautiously, like a wild animal, suspicious yet drawn by the prospect of food, and stared at her closely from under lowered brows.

“You’re the Widow,” he muttered. “Steve told me you were coming.”

“You can call me Natasha,” she said with forced lightness, turning back to the skillet and jabbing at the steak to test its doneness. “You hungry?” 

The way his eyes darted past her to the steak was all the answer she needed. She removed it from the skillet to a cutting board and halved it, dropping the slightly larger portion onto a plate and handing it to the Soldier, along with a fork and steak knife. He looked at the fork and knife for a long moment, before setting them aside and seating himself at the kitchen table. A hunting knife appeared in his hand from some unknown location on his person, and he used it to quickly divide the steak into chunks before spearing one on the tip and shoving it into his mouth. Natasha sat across from him and started working on her own half. 

They ate in what might be termed companionable silence, until Bucky finished his meat and stood. He flashed her the barest ghost of a polite smile, like an old habit on its deathbed.

“Thanks, Red,” he said, and walked out.

* * *

 

The second day was much like the first, the apartment silent and Natasha puttering around looking for things to occupy her. She worked out with some of Steve’s weights for a while (the few she could actually lift, at least), took a shower, made breakfast. She wondered if the smell of frying eggs would also lure Barnes out of his room, but apparently not.

Late that afternoon, after she’d finished her book and methodically looked through all of Steve’s drawers and cabinets, trying to find something she could tease him about later (a failure), she settled on pawing through his record collection. It was all 1940s pop and swing music (no surprise), so Natasha picked something at random and put it on the record player. 

_I’ll never smile again_

_Until I smile at you_

_I’ll never laugh again_

_What good would it do?_

The smooth, ghostly strains of Frank Sinatra’s voice poured out of the speakers and Natasha eased back into the couch, closing her eyes. She didn’t even sense another presence in the room until the Soldier spoke.

“This is the last song I danced to, before.”

She jumped in surprise and twisted to look at him. He was standing in the doorway, staring at the record as it revolved slowly on its spindle. His face betrayed no emotion.

“A long time ago, huh?” She said, regaining her composure.

“Doesn’t seem that long.”

She waited for him to say something more, but instead he just sat down stiffly in the straight-backed chair in the corner (a good line of sight to all of the exits) and listened to the music as the next track started, staring steadily at the record player. 

When they finished the A-side Natasha went over and flipped the record, very conscious of the Soldier’s eyes on her. When the album was done, Natasha asked “Another?” and he nodded shortly.

They spent the rest of the afternoon like that, alone in their separate thoughts while the music of another lifetime poured into the air around them.

“I’m hungry,” she announced as the last chords of “The Chattanooga Choo-Choo” faded away.

The music seemed to have calmed Barnes somewhat, because he was slouching a little in his chair, his hands resting relaxed against his thighs. He glanced at her and nodded minutely, perceptible only as a slight ripple in his lank hair.

She was in the kitchen perusing the fridge when he drifted in and planted himself in the corner.

“Do you have anything in mind?” She asked, glancing at him over the door. He shrugged. “You want steaks again?” 

“Okay.” The speed with which he replied brought a little smile to Natasha’s lips which she hid by straightening to root through the freezer.

“We’ll have to wait for these to defrost,” she said, filling the sink with water and dropping in the vacuum-packed steaks. Natasha boiled some potatoes and green beans while Bucky observed silently, then cooked the steaks the same as yesterday. This time he made an attempt with the fork and knife although he held them awkwardly, as if they were weapons. In his hands, she supposed, they were. 

This time when he finished, he lingered, staring out the window into the dark.

“The last time you danced, before,” Natasha broke the silence. “Who was it with?”

“It was—“ Barnes halted abruptly, as though the words he’d expected to be there were missing. The blank expression he’d worn all day twisted into something human—confusion. “I don’t remember. A dame. I’ve…I can hear the music, and feel it, but there’s no face. There’s no words.”

“I’ve got some years missing too,” she said softly. “They took them. Sometimes I have memories that end half-way through. Or flicker in and out like a bad signal.”

“How do you live with it?”

Natasha shrugged. “You make new memories.”

* * *

 

The third day he came out for breakfast, too, although he refused Natasha’s offer of coffee and toast. The shadows under his eyes looked deeper than usual, and she wondered how much he slept.

After she finished washing the dishes, she tapped lightly on the table to get Bucky’s attention. “I have something I think you’ll like.” She ducked into Steve’s bedroom, where she was sleeping, and returned holding a well-worn leather case, which she unrolled on the kitchen table. Bucky’s face lit up with something like pleasure.

Inside were Natasha’s “travel weapons,” a selection of knives, guns, and other armaments she brought with her on trips. Nothing compared to the collection she kept at home, but an arsenal nonetheless. “These are in sore need of maintenance. I though you might like to help me.”

The Soldier replied by picking up an old Makarov, racking the slide, and looking down its sights. “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore,” he said admiringly.

“They sure don’t,” she replied with a grin.

None of the guns were loaded, but even if they were, she wouldn’t have been much more concerned for her safety than she was already. The Soldier was just as lethal with a knife as a gun and was enough of a weapon himself that if he got it in his head to kill her, she wouldn’t stand much of a chance. 

Anyway, he didn’t seem particularly murderous at the moment. On the contrary, the weapons seemed to have put him in a better mood. Natasha considered herself an expert, but the speed with which he could field strip and clean a pistol put her to shame. 

Since he seemed to have the guns under control, she set to sharpening and oiling her knives and they worked in companionable silence for an hour or so.

“You should take Steve to the firing range sometime and give him some pointers,” she said offhandedly as they were returning all the weapons to their places in the case. “He’s a terrible shot.”

Bucky barked out a laugh, which seemed to surprise him. “Yeah. He is. I think.”

* * *

 

Natasha left to return her weapons to her room and when she returned, the kitchen was empty. She assumed Bucky had returned to his room and was surprised to hear music abruptly start playing in the living room. When she walked in, Bucky started and looked up from where he was bent over Steve’s record player. His expression was almost guilty, but he didn’t offer an explanation. Natasha smiled and gestured for him to continue before curling up on the couch and picking up her book.

Today Bucky traded the wooden chair in the corner for the opposite end of the couch. Still a decent line of sight on any possible angle of attack, but certainly more comfortable.

As Bucky’s music selections progressed, it became clear that his tastes ran towards more sensual, suggestive jazz and blues. A few tracks into a Bessie Smith record and Natasha was smiling broadly, her eyebrows creeping upwards.

_I need a little sugar in my bowl_  
 _I need a little hot dog on my roll_  
 _I can stand a bit of lovin', oh so bad_  
 _I feel so funny, I feel so sad_

_I need a little steam-heat on my floor_  
 _Maybe I can fix things up, so they'll go_  
 _What's the matter hard papa_  
 _Come on and save your mama's soul_  
 _'Cause I need a little sugar, in my bowl_

She turned from the book to look at him, but his expression was, as usual, indecipherable. She thought about the kinds of things Steve had always said about him, back before they knew about the Winter Soldier, when Bucky Barnes was still just a sad, dead American hero. He was a real casanova, Steve said. Five girlfriends at a time, sometimes. Always trying to pair up Steve with a girl so they could all go dancing together.

“Hey,” she reached out her leg to poke his thigh with her toe and his left arm instinctively grabbed her foot in a crushing grip before she could touch him. “Ow.”

He looked down at his arm, as though he were unaware that it had even moved, and deliberately unclenched his metal fingers from around her bare foot. “Sorry.”

Natasha massaged her foot and sighed. “My bad, I guess.”

“What were you going to say?” He asked roughly after a long moment.

“I was just curious if you were really happy to just sit here listening when we could be dancing.”

That seemed to throw Barnes off balance. He looked at her a little quizzically, as though trying to determine whether or not she was teasing him. 

“Come on,” she said, standing. “Make a new memory.”

* * *

 

The hard part about dancing with Bucky was getting close to him. He seemed to expect pain from every touch and reacted to each gesture like an attack. With what was clearly a concerted effort, he let Natasha plant his right hand on her waist and put her left hand on his shoulder. He seemed to have trouble getting his prosthetic arm to take hold of her other hand. It twitched backwards like a nervous bird, unwilling to commit to a steady grasp, maybe wary of hurting her. Natasha knew it could be gentle and perform delicate tasks, she’d seen it do wonders with the guns earlier.

Finally, frustrated at how long it was taking to get situated, Natasha grabbed the hand and refused to let go. Eventually, the metal fingers reluctantly curled around hers. “There. Like that. I’m not made of glass, okay?”

Bucky glared at her, annoyed, and seemed about to call the entire venture off. Natasha clamped her hand around his shoulder with her own not inconsiderable strength and held him in place. “Nuh-uh, buddy. We made it this far. Or are you chicken?"

At the challenge, a little bit of life flared into Bucky’s eyes and he abruptly started moving to the music. _Bingo_ , Natasha thought.

The first song was a little bit of a battle of wills. Bucky’s competitiveness and pride was clearly all that was keeping the situation together, so Natasha fueled it by fighting for the lead a little, trying to force him into strange or unexpected steps. He responded in kind, until they were executing a consistent, though slightly combative swing step around Steve’s living room.

The next song was faster, so they had to abandon wrestle-dancing in favor of the more conventional kind. But Natasha kept her gaze fixed on Bucky’s and her implicit challenge remained. She broke away from him for a moment to execute a more complex step and when she returned, neither of his hands hesitated to hold her again.

“You’re pretty good at this,” he commented. He wasn’t out of breath, but his face was lit up and animated like she’d never seen it before.

She shrugged. “Dancing comes easy to me. What about you?”

“What about me?” He asked, throwing her into a spin. 

“You’re not too shabby yourself.”

“Well, TV didn’t exist when I was a kid and Ma couldn’t afford a radio.” He missed a step at that, seeming to realize what he’d said only after it left his mouth.

“What?”

His mouth tightened. “I didn’t know I knew that.”

“Now you do.” 

“Now I do.”

The next song was slow, and Natasha leaned in closer to him. Bucky began to instinctively draw away again, but she held him in place with another warning squeeze to his shoulder. He responded more readily this time.

The song was about love lost and heartbreak. Natasha liked it. Bucky gazed down at her contemplatively, the warm human aliveness still there in his face.

“What’s a girl like you doing hanging around with a punk like Steve, anyway?” He asked, the cadence of his voice a little strange, but somehow familiar.

“We were work colleagues and now we’re…friends.” She tested the word carefully in her mouth. It felt right.

“Not more than friends?”

She laughed. “No. I don’t think I could stand being around all that patriotism for any length of time. I’d probably get an allergic reaction. I trust him, though.”

Bucky nodded as if that explained everything. “Me too.”

* * *

 

The afternoon was a victory overall, save for Steve’s coffee table which was irreparably damaged by a particularly acrobatic dip. When the last song ended, Natasha sighed, clapped Bucky amiably on the shoulder and thanked him for a fun time before announcing that she was going to watch TV.

Bucky retook his position at the end of the couch and picked up Natasha’s abandoned book while she navigated Steve’s painfully limited cable package.

About a half an hour later, the man himself arrived home, bruised and a little dusty, but otherwise intact. Natasha looked away from the TV at the sound of his entry, and when she turned back, Bucky had disappeared. A second later, she heard the quiet click of his bedroom door closing.

“How’d it go?” Steve asked, a little anxious. 

“Fine,” Natasha replied. “He was a perfect angel. Well, I’ve gotta run. See ya.” She hefted her bag and a moment later was half-way down the hallway. As Steve’s apartment door closed, she could faintly hear “What the _hell_ happened to my coffee table?”

* * *

 

A day later, Steve called Natasha insisting they meet for coffee. Natasha invited him to Pearl’s.

“Who’s watching Bucky?” Natasha asked as Steve slid into the booth opposite her.

“No one. I trust him to be alone for a couple of hours.”

“But Sam’s there, isn’t he.”

Steve blushed. “Yeah, he’s just hanging around outside in case there’s a major situation.” 

Natasha sipped her coffee to mask a smile. “So, what was it you needed to talk about so urgently?”

Steve leaned forward eagerly. “You’ve gotta tell me what you did while you were there. He won’t say anything except that you cook better steaks than me.”

Natasha shrugged. “I cooked him steaks. The secret is to take them off the heat a little before they’re done.”

“Come on,” Steve groaned.

“And we listened to music, cleaned my travel weapons, and danced.”

Steve gaped. “Danced? Are you serious? You got him to dance?” 

“Sure,” Natasha said.

“I just—that’s amazing. Really?”

“Really.”

“How?”

“Asked him if he wanted to.”

“And he said yes?”

“After a fashion.”

“That’s…I’m actually really jealous. I can barely get him to come out of his room.”

“You heard my tip about the steaks, right?”

They were interrupted as Skip shuffled by on his way to his booth. “Hiya, Red.”

“Morning, Skip.”

“What’s a girl like you doing with a punk like this?” He asked good-naturedly. Natasha laughed.

“What?” Steve asked after Skip had passed by.

“Another old man said that exact same thing to me recently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was literally just supposed to be a short, light-hearted piece about how Bucky flirts like an old dude...but sexy. As you can see, it kind of spiraled out of control. I'm planning to continue it since I actually haven't gotten to the things I originally intended to write yet.


	2. Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is called in to babysit again. She decides to take things to the next level.

The next time Natasha got called in for babysitter duty was a month and half later. Steve had been intermittently texting updates on Bucky’s progress to her and Sam, always laboriously pecked out with perfect spelling and punctuation. 

_He remembered Tommy Huss from the third grade today!_

_He picked out his own cereal!_

_He said the pork chops I made were ‘fine!’_

Having only heard about the steps forward, it was a little jarring when Natasha arrived and found Steve about as haggard as she’d ever seen him. 

“I’m really sorry to have to call you in right now,” Steve said to her quietly as he lingered in the doorway with his bag. “It’s been a rough week. If you hear him at night, stay in your room with the door locked. It can get pretty messy.”

And with that he was gone, leaving Natasha much more worried than she’d been five minutes ago.

After an hour of sitting on the couch, tapping her foot anxiously with no sign of movement from the back room, Natasha decided she at least needed to get a fuller picture of the situation. She walked down the hallway to Bucky’s door and stood outside it for a long moment, listening. Nothing, but since she’d made no attempt to be stealthy, she had to assume he knew she was there. She rapped on the door with the back of a knuckle.

Silence, then “What?”

“Can I come in?”

“Fine.”

At first, she was blinded by the darkness of the room. Not only were all the curtains drawn, but he had also dragged a bookshelf in front of the larger of the two windows. She stood still for a moment to let her eyes adjust, and finally made out the Soldier’s silhouette and the gleam of his eyes in the far corner. Not to mention the matching gleam of a very large knife that disappeared back into his clothes after a moment.

“Just wanted to say hi,” she said.

“Done?”

“Maybe.” She took a few more steps into the room and leaned in to take a closer look at the books on the bedside table. “This is mine,” she exclaimed, picking up her copy of _The Master and Margarita_.

“You left it,” he said defensively.

She meandered closer to him in the course of her inspection of the room and could sense him tensing as she approached.

“So,” she said, poking her head into the almost-empty closet. “Steve says things have been rocky for the past week.”

He didn’t respond.

“I just want to know what I’m getting into, so there won’t be any surprises.” She finally finished her tour of the room, ending up face-to-face with him.

He seemed about to snarl at her, but she bit her lip and his eyes flicked down to follow the movement. Suddenly his face relaxed. “You don’t like surprises?”

 _That was weird_ , Natasha thought, but her gears were already turning, processing, recalibrating to account for this new variable. She smiled. “It takes a lot to surprise me.”

“Well I’m full of surprises.” He grimaced. “New ones every day, seems like.”

Natasha smiled sadly. She knew about the flashbacks, the night terrors, the paranoia. It had taken her years to drive them away. It was probably much worse for him. He had master-assassin trauma stacked on top of a healthy portion of newly-rediscovered World War II trauma.

“Well I don’t see how sitting alone in a dark room, stuck in your own head is going to help that.”

He looked around uneasily, at a loss, and she knew if she waited for him to think of something else to do, she’d be in this room for five hundred years.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “How about we only do things Steve would disapprove of this weekend? Have some fun for once. And believe me,” she leaned in conspiratorially. “I know how to have fun in this town.”

* * *

 

Being the Winter Soldier’s handler must have been a cushy gig, because he was extremely responsive to instruction. She picked out some of Steve’s clothes for him to wear and had him wait in the living room while she got ready. 

When she emerged, though, she noticed he had also put on Steve’s leather jacket. At her raised eyebrow, he said “I thought we were supposed to do things Steve would disapprove of.”

Natasha laughed as she went to pick up her purse and thought she saw a hint of a smile on his face out of the corner of her eye. And she definitely wasn’t imagining the fact that he was checking out her legs as she bent over. She had an unerring sixth sense about that kind of thing.

She had worried he’d be jumpy outside, but she shouldn’t have. Like her, he was an expert at being unnoticed, at blending in to the background. She muttered precise directions to him as they strolled along in the waning daylight. “Two blocks down, then a right.” “Left and then out the opposite side of the square.” He seemed content to go into autopilot following her instructions and in no time they’d arrived at their destination, a cozy little whiskey and BBQ place in Adams Morgan called Smoke & Barrel.

Natasha smiled sweetly at the host and secured them a quiet booth near the back.

“You’ll never get me to say a thing against good Russian vodka,” Natasha said as she opened her menu. “But there are some itches that only bourbon can scratch.”

Bucky mimicked her and opened the whiskey list, but she reached out and took it from him when she saw his eyes widen in dismay.

“They have a ridiculous selection. Can I recommend something?” Bucky looked relieved.

They ended up with two doubles of Jefferson’s Reserve and an order of “every type of barbecue you’ve got.” Neither of them talked much for the ensuing half hour.

Afterwards, they both reclined in their seats, digesting and working on their third round of whiskey. Bucky seemed dazed, whether from the booze or the food, she didn’t know.

“You couldn’t get that during the Depression,” he said.

Natasha snorted into her glass and he gave another one of those ghostly semi-smiles.

“Well,” Natasha said, gesturing for the check as a pair of middle-aged women in pantsuits walked past talking about grant proposals. “This place is boring. You ready for our next stop?”

* * *

 

Their next stop was Madam’s Organ, a cramped, teetering three-story bar a little ways down the street. It was packed with raucous twenty-somethings, so after buying a pitcher of cheap beer, they climbed to the relative quiet of the roof deck and shouldered their way onto a bench (people tended to back down when confronted with Bucky’s left shoulder, especially). They sipped their beer and peered over the wall at the people on the street below them.

A drunk college-age girl was whining that her feet hurt while her boyfriend laughed obnoxiously with his friends. Natasha watched Bucky’s eyes carefully track the people below and suddenly realized that he was spotting targets. The expression slowly fell away from his face.

“Hey,” she said elbowing him. His gaze snapped to her as if he’d been suddenly awakened. She nodded to the obnoxious boyfriend below them and raised the half-empty pitcher of beer in a silent question. Bucky’s smile was more than ghostly this time.

“Steve would _never_ do something like that.”

The girl was still laughing at her sputtering, damp, and humiliated companion when they left the bar.

* * *

 

“You get to pick next,” Natasha announced as they continued to stroll down 18th Street. “I know some places with pretty good back-room gambling. Or we could break into the Capitol building, that’s always fun. Or how about an arcade? You’d be a champ at Buck Hunt.” She gasped, her eyes widening. “Oh, I know! Go karts!”

“No—“

“Not fast enough? I think there’s an illegal motorcycle street race in Alexandria we could—“

“Could we—“ It was dark, but she thought he looked embarrassed. “Is there anywhere with dancing?” No, not embarrassed, nervous to be asking for something. Expecting punishment.

“Sure.” She heard him let out a shaky breath of relief. They took a few turns off onto smaller streets, away from the sounds of drunken twenty-somethings and towards the sounds of live music drifting out of a dingy piano bar. The jazz was more 1960s than 1940s but Natasha figured it was better than taking him to a club. A few middle-aged couples were swaying lethargically on the small dance floor. Bucky frowned as they walked in.

“You call this dancing?”

“These days it’s either all sex or no sex.”

 _“I think I’d prefer the first thing,”_ she thought she heard him mutter.

“You don’t get to do that kind of dancing until we’re sure you don’t have any triggers that can be activated by strobing lights.”

He looked confused. “Do those exist?”

Natasha shrugged, grabbing his hand and pulling him out onto the dance floor . “I saw it in a movie once.”

The night’s activities seemed to have loosened Bucky up somewhat and he was much more relaxed than the last time they’d done this. They literally danced circles around the older couples and their relative enthusiasm inspired a few other younger pairs to get up and dance too. The band, sensing renewed energy, starting playing some more up-tempo songs.

Bucky had to concentrate a little more because of the unfamiliar rhythms than he had to with the swing music, and he let Natasha take the lead whenever she tried a more complicated step. She thought the look of concentration on his disarmingly boyish face was adorable.

“You are looking at me…very closely,” he said distractedly, watching her feet as she did an improvised twist.

“What else am I supposed to look at?”

“I—“

“Excuse me, miss?” Someone tapped on her shoulder. “May I cut in?”

A balding, thick-necked man stinking of cheap beer loomed behind her. Natasha favored him with a cursory glance. Ex-military. Probably Secret Service. Handgun in a shoulder holster. Belligerently drunk.

“No thanks,” she said.

He grabbed her shoulder this time. “Come on, don’t be a bitch, I just wanna—“

Natasha took his hand, twisted it backwards, and easily forced him down onto his knees. He let out a pained squawk. It was amazing more presidents weren’t assassinated, with guards like these, she thought.

“I said no.”

“Jesus, you cunt! I think you broke my fucking wrist.” By this point the band had stopped playing and everyone in the bar was watching them.

“No,” Bucky supplied helpfully. “A wrist breaking sounds like this.” He drove his heel down onto the man’s arm.

“Let’s get out of here,” Natasha said, pulling Bucky through the stunned crowd and into the cool night air.

* * *

 

Natasha complained that her buzz was wearing off, and it was unclear whether or not Bucky had even gotten one in the first place, so they stopped at a liquor store and bought two fifths of good vodka.

“За здоровье!” Natasha cracked the seal on her bottle and raised it in a salute as they walked along. Bucky responded in kind.

After a while they came across a bridge that butted up against the vast quiet darkness of a park. 

“Oh hey, this’ll be fun,” Natasha said, vaulting over the side of the bridge and onto the manicured lawn below. The quiet thump of his boots landing on the ground indicated Bucky had followed her. They walked for a few minutes through the dark trees and eventually came to a tall wrought iron fence, which they scaled. On the other side was a concrete path winding between landscaped enclosures. 

She grabbed his arm to stop him. “Look!”

Two green eyes glowed from within one of the enclosures, watching them. They stood stock still, and after a moment, a panther slinked into the moonlight.

“The saps who come during the day never get to see this,” Natasha whispered. “They’re nocturnal.” She took another swig from her bottle and turned to look at Bucky. He was staring at the big cat, his mouth slightly ajar, entranced.

“Hey,” Natasha nudged him gently. “You wanna see if the tigers are awake too?”

They explored the zoo for a few hours, ending up on a bench next to the chimp enclosure, where a mother and her child were sleeping soundly in a tree very near to the path.

“I never seen anything like this before,” Bucky said after a long silence.

“The wonder of nature.” Natasha was half-way through her bottle and swaying a little.

He turned to regard her, his eyes inky black in the moonlight. “Hey, Red,” he said quietly.

“Mmhm?”

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him genuinely and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.

He pouted when she drew away. “You know I’m a war hero, right?”

“You know you’ve shot me twice.”

“What’s that between friends?”

She laughed. He must be drunk, she thought. Not that she wasn’t tempted as he leaned closer to her. 

“You’re a real dish, you know, Red. Time was, I would’ve given my left foot to take a doll like you out.” 

She thought he would kiss her then, but instead he just rested his forehead on her shoulder. “I’m so tired.”

She rubbed his back. “You wanna go home, big guy?” She felt him nod against her. Together they climbed back out to the street and stumbled home to Steve’s apartment.

* * *

 

Natasha woke the next morning with a brutal hangover, splayed diagonally across Steve’s bed, still fully dressed, although she’d at least managed to kick her shoes off. She lifted her head and squinted blearily against the sunlight streaming into the room. Her bottle of vodka was sitting on the nightstand, a bare two fingers left in the bottom.

She managed to drag herself vertical and stumbled off towards the bathroom, belatedly realizing she’d forgotten to lock her door last night.

“Well, I’m still alive, so that’s a win,” she muttered.

She made a pit stop in the bathroom and then continued to the kitchen in search of coffee and food to soak up the liquor remaining in her system.

The coffee was almost done brewing when she heard a strangled shout through the wall. Curious, she padded down the hall to Bucky’s door and tapped on in lightly.

“You okay in there, James?” She called softly. When there was no response, she eased the door open and slipped in. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and she managed to discern Bucky’s form on the bed, still asleep but tossing restlessly, soaked in sweat. The sheets and comforter had been kicked violently off the bed. 

She reached out, grasping his shoulder to shake him, but suddenly found her back flat on the floor, his metal hand locked around her throat with crushing strength. His eyes were wild and the man from last night was gone. In his place there was an animal, feral and vicious, lost in his nightmare.

He was crushing the life out of her as she clawed and kicked at him ineffectively. Black started to crowd in on her vision and she felt her consciousness begin to slip away. With her last strength, she reached out and placed her hand tenderly against his cheek.

The last thing she saw before she passed out was his blue eyes clearing and a look of horror passing across his face.

* * *

 

When she came to, she was laying on the couch in Steve’s living room. Bucky was sitting on the (brand new) coffee table, watching her, a picture of contriteness. 

“Good morning,” Natasha croaked, her voice grinding out of her raw throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly.

“Less ‘I’m sorry’ and more getting me my coffee.”

In a flash he was gone and just as quickly returned with a still-steaming mug, which he placed on the table before her. His hands floated around her impotently as she struggled to pull herself into a sitting position, unsure how to help her, or whether she’d accept his help. She waved him away with one hand while she lifted the mug to her lips with the other. He retreated to his perch on the coffee table, watching her anxiously.

“I’d be lying if I said that was the first time I’ve been choked out while massively hungover,” she rasped wryly.

He barked out one of his mirthless laughs and looked down at his hands. “I’m really sorry,” he said again after a long moment.

“I know. I forgive you.”

He looked back at up at her, something fierce in his eyes. “After everything I’ve done, I don’t deserve people like you and Steve.”

“We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t think you deserved it.” He looked down at his hands again. She reached out, grasping his jaw and firmly forcing him to meet her eyes. “Now your mission is to prove us right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I STRONGLY considered making the whole "night on the town" thing just the "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" montage from The Royal Tenenbaums. Natasha is Gene Hackman. 
> 
> Also you might have noticed this story continues to resist all of my attempts to give it direction, purpose, or consistency. IT'S COOL, WHATEVER, MAN. Just imagine that a bunch of character development and general Bucky rehab happens between the chapters. Imagine Steve back there working away faithfully, burning soothing scented candles and playing old radio shows or something.


	3. Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha goes on a mission and takes Bucky with her. They have a close encounter with a garbage truck, then they dance another kind of dance.

Natasha spent the next three months out of the country, chasing down a lead on Hydra for Nick Fury who, though no longer the head of SHIELD, was vying with Stark for the position of person who could coerce the Avengers into going on the most missions. Bruce and Thor (when he happened to be on-planet) were firmly in Tony’s camp, while Natasha and Clint remained faithful to Fury. Steve bounced back and forth, torn between his dedication to everyone.

So since Natasha found herself running a complex infiltration and intelligence-gathering mission in eastern Ukraine under strict radio silence for several weeks, she was surprised to discover upon her return to the States that everyone had apparently moved in to Tony’s tasteless skyscraper on Park Avenue. Not Fury, of course, he lived in the wind, but everyone else. Even Bucky, who naturally went wherever Steve did. 

She learned this because as soon as she got off the plane and turned on her phone, it had started loudly emitting Stark’s voice without bothering to ring or wait for her to answer the call (this was an annoying habit of Tony’s).

“Agent Romanooooff, welcome home Agent Romanoff!” It shouted at full volume. “But you’re not really home yet. Know how I know? Because you have a floor at Stark Tower with your name on it, but none of your stuff’s there. Do you even have stuff? Or do you just live in one of those empty minimalist penthouse apartments with white walls and no furniture? And like, you don’t have a bed, you just spend all night sitting in the dark, fondling your guns? You know, I started off trying to make that disparaging, but to be honest I’m actually kind of into it now—”

“I’m not moving in to your building, Stark.” 

“Oh, come on. Everyone else is doing it. Even the Cap’s buddy, Bionic Jason Bourne or whoever he is. We don’t really talk much. To be honest, I think Steve’s been trying to hide him from me.”

“Still not happening.”

“Well, I’ll keep working on you. In the meantime, though we need your help on a mission-type thing. Black Widow-specific skills are required.”

She sighed. “I literally just got back, you know that right?”

His voice became serious. “I know, Natasha. I wouldn’t ask unless we really needed you. Fury’s in on this one too. It’s big.”

“Fine, I’ll be there in three hours.”

“We’ll wait up for you.”

So she got her car out of long-term parking and turned it north.

* * *

 

Two hours and fifty-nine minutes later she stepped from the lobby of Stark Tower into the elevator. Jarvis helpfully informed her that the Avengers were meeting in the Observation Deck and it would be his great pleasure to escort her there.

“Jarvis, are you flirting with me?” She teased.

“Certainly not, Agent Romanoff,” he responded after a very long pause.

The elevator sped smoothly upwards and the doors opened to reveal quite a gathering on Tony’s gigantic recessed couches. 

“Natasha,” Tony exclaimed. “Eerily on time, as usual.”

Tony was fiddling with a piece of machinery with Pepper perched next to him, engrossed in her phone. Across from them were Steve, Bruce, and Clint, who all smiled when they turned to look at her, Clint slightly more enthusiastically than the other two.

And in the corner, hard to see at first glance, was Bucky. He nodded to acknowledge her and then turned his gaze back out the darkened windows. A moment later, the glass door to the balcony slid open and Nick Fury walked in, putting away his phone.

“You’re here. Good,” he said, when he caught sight of her. “Sit down, I need to brief all of you.”

Natasha mussed Clint’s hair affectionately and then dropped down onto the couch next to him. She could feel eyes boring into her back from Bucky’s general direction.

“Based on intelligence gathered by Agent Romanoff, we’ve come to believe that Hydra is planning an attack with global scope and unpleasant implications,” Fury began.

“Must be Tuesday,” Steve muttered.

The gist of it was this: Hydra had developed a biochemical weapon that targeted people’s higher-level brain function, making them much more susceptible to suggestion and less disposed towards independent thought and rebelliousness. It spread virally and had a 5% mortality rate—Natasha had found the corpses of some of its victims near a Ukrainian test site and sent samples of their blood back to Fury.

Fury and Stark had teamed up to search for their production site but had so far come up with nothing. They had, however found BFRC Laboratories, the company that was sourcing some of the compound’s key components. It was teeming with Hydra operatives and impervious to Tony’s attempts at hacking its computer systems. Since any kind of violent attack would warn Hydra’s production site they were coming, BFRC needed to be infiltrated covertly. 

“So that’s why you need me,” Natasha said after Nick Fury had concluded. “Anyone would recognize Captain America, Banner has the poker face of a two-year-old, Clint is bad at science, Tony is too…Tony, and—“

“And they don’t trust me,” Bucky finished. She turned around to look at him. He was smiling humorlessly.

“C’mon, Buck, you know that’s not really—“ Steve started, as if this was an argument they’d had many times before. “You and Hydra have too much of a history and—“

“I thought avenging was supposed to be this little club’s whole M.O. Don’t I get to avenge myself?”

“Of course, but wait until after we—“

“I need him,” Natasha said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at her. “It’s a two-man operation. He’s the best one for the job.”

* * *

 

It took a little convincing, but eventually Natasha got everyone to agree on her plan. She put Tony to work making fake ID badges that could fool RFID sensors and then then took the elevator down to Steve and Bucky’s floor. When the doors slid open, Steve popped his head around a corner to see who it was.

“Hey, Nat,” he said. “Lemme guess, you’re not here to see me.”

“Unfortunately no, Cap,” she smiled. “We haven’t seen much of each other recently, have we?”

“It’s been a busy few months. And you know, I was really hesitant to move in here too, for a lot of reasons, but it’s actually been really nice so far. And by ‘really nice,’ I mean I hardly ever run into Tony and food just magically appears in the refrigerator every day.”

“I’ll think about it. Anyway, where’s Old Ironsides?”

“Old Ironsides can hear you,” came a voice from the other room.

“Looks like you found your attitude since the last time I saw you,” Natasha said, walking into the living room to find him sprawled on the couch.

“It’s hard to have an attitude when your brain has two different answers to every question. Dr. Banner’s been helping with that.”

“Therapy?”

He snorted. “God, no. Medication.”

She sat down on the other couch, leaning forward to scrutinize him, her arms resting on her knees. “So that’s why the others don’t trust you to do this. They think the drugs are all that’s keeping you together.”

“But that’s not how it is,” he said with quiet intensity, determined to make her believe him. “The drugs help, but it’s me, too. I’ve been putting the pieces back together. It’s not—” He shook his head in frustration. “They’re not all there yet, but the Soldier doesn’t have power like he used to.”

Natasha looked at him hard for a long moment. “I believe you. But we’re going to need some of the Soldier to do this.”

“I can do what he can do,” Bucky said levelly.

“Good,” Natasha said briskly, standing. “Now, you need a haircut. You’re not going undercover anywhere like that.”

She had him get in the shower to wash his hair and he called her into the still-steaming bathroom once he was done, clad only in a pair of jeans.

She sat him down on the toilet, threw a towel across his shoulders, and ran her hands absently through his long, damp hair, considering. She was good at almost everything (it was her job), but she actually legitimately enjoyed cutting hair, her own or other people’s. She found it relaxing and somehow vaguely similar to physical violence while not actually harmful (if you did it right).

“That feels nice,” Bucky murmured after a few moments. Natasha sighed and roughly mussed his hair like she had with Clint’s earlier. 

“You boys are all the same.”

She started by chopping most of his hair off with a pair of scissors. Then she took Steve’s trimmer and cut the back and sides short, leaving it longer at the top, which she parted on the side so the longer locks could fall rakishly across his forehead.

Afterwards, he regarded himself in the mirror. “Well, the times have changed, but I guess the hairstyles haven’t.”

“You caught society at the right point in the male hairstyle trend cycle.”

“Lucky me.”

“Listen, be happy you didn’t have to cope with the eighties.”

He stood up and shook the towel off over the sink. “So, what exactly are the details of this master plan of yours?”

* * *

 

The details of her master plan were these: Tony would set them up fake identities. Natasha as the VP of Sales for a prominent chemicals manufacturer and Bucky as her assistant. Natasha’s story would be that her company was looking to sell an unplanned surplus of nearly-expired rare and hard-to-come-by monoacylglycerol at a steep discount. BFRC needed monoacylglycerol for its production of Hydra’s weapon.

They would arrange an appointment with BFRC’s Chief Operations Officer, a woman named Kristin Faulkner. Natasha would interrogate her to find the location of Hydra’s factory while Bucky disabled the radio frequency scrambler that was blocking all incoming and outgoing communications, the same scrambler that had resisted all of Tony’s attempts to hack it—certainly Hydra tech—all without alerting any Hydra agents. If everything went well, they would then simply send the location on to the other Avengers to do all the heavy lifting.

Tony arranged for an discreet high-end car service to drive Natasha and Bucky to BFRC’s plant in Pennsylvania. Natasha and Bucky were both in expensive suits. Natasha wore a stylish white wig and a holo-mask that gave her the visage of a distinguished woman in her fifties. The transformation seemed to amaze Bucky, and he spent a much of the drive surreptitiously looking at her, tilting his head this way and that, trying to probe the mask for imperfections or glitches. He was wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses which, combined with the haircut, well-tailored suit, and a holo-glove of his own that made his left hand look like flesh, rendered him almost unrecognizable as the Winter Soldier.

“You keep staring at me and this mission will be over before it starts, _Jason_.” She was starting to get into character.  
  
Bucky smiled crookedly. “Sorry, _Ms. Rostock_. When you said ‘disguise,’ I thought you meant a fake nose.”  
  
“Why not play with the nice toys if you’ve got ‘em?”  
  
“Point taken.” He nodded towards her designer stilettos. “Ms. Rostock's got a really nice pair of gams for an older lady, though.”  
  
Natasha smiled sweetly. “Thanks. She spends a lot of time on the elliptical."  
  
Their car slowed to a halt at a gatehouse outside the facility. After conferring with their driver, the guard open the gate and waved them through. They pulled up to the front entrance of the building and the driver opened the back door. Natasha squinted exaggeratedly at the sunlight as if momentarily blinded, but took the split second it afforded her to study the two people who were there to meet her.  
  
The first was Faulkner, the COO, a trim, serious, dark-haired woman in a blue suit. The other Natasha didn’t recognize. He was a middle-aged man with average build and features, but there was something dead about his eyes. A Hydra agent, she would bet her life on it.  
  
Natasha stepped forward smoothly and extended her hand to Faulkner. “Nadine Rostock, pleased to meet you.”  
  
“The feeling is mutual, Ms. Rostock. Kristin Faulkner. Welcome to BFRC. This is Mr. Stone, one of my colleagues.” Faulkner gestured to the man and Natasha shook his hand. It was cold and had an almost painfully firm grip. He remained silent.  
  
“Oh, and this is my assistant, Jason,” Natasha waved dismissively at Bucky, who had just finished collecting her jacket and briefcase from the back seat of the car. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him bob obsequiously.   
  
“Shall we?” Faulkner asked, escorting them through the doors. Inside, there was an elaborate security checkpoint. Certainly one that would have been out of place at any other chemical plant of this size. “I’m sorry, we’re very serious about protecting our physical and intellectual property,” Faulkner said.  
  
“I understand completely,” Natasha said. First they sent their jackets and the briefcase through an x-ray, then they walked through a metal detector. Natasha tensed a little as Bucky walked through, but he’d assured her that his arm was made of an alloy that metal detectors were unable to distinguish from flesh. The detector didn’t protest as he walked through. On the other side, they passed their company IDs to a bored-looking guard who waved them across a scanner. He peered at a screen and carefully compared their faces to those on the screen in front of him.  
  
“Cell phones?” He drawled, extending a plastic tray to them. Both Bucky and Natasha dropped their dummy phones into the tray. Tony had filled them with realistic data to back up their identities, including, she had noticed, a series of texts from last January that implied that Jason and Nadine had somewhat more than an employer-employee relationship.  
  
“They’re cleared,” the guard announced.  
  
“Fantastic,” Faulkner smiled pleasantly and led them further into the building. They took an elevator a few floors up and down a nondescript hallway to Faulkner’s office, which looked out over a factory floor with dozens of employees working amongst a seemingly endless expanse of massive vats. Faulkner seated herself behind her desk, and Natasha and Bucky sat down in the two across from her. Dead-Eyes (as if "Mr. Stone" were his real name) took up position in the corner by the door behind Natasha.  
  
“Now, let’s get down to business.”

* * *

 

Natasha spoke at length about her company’s surplus monoacylglycerol supply, long enough to visibly bore Dead-Eyes and assuage any of Faulkner’s lingering suspicions. Bucky was silent, listening attentively and taking notes on the meeting’s proceedings. Once they started to move on to negotiating the price, though, he started shifting uncomfortably and eventually cleared his throat.  
  
“Excuse me, may I use your restroom?” He managed to summon a blush and cast a nervous glance at Natasha, who glowered.  
  
“Of course, it’s just down the hallway. Mr. Stone can take you.”  
  
“Thank you,” Bucky said, turning to follow an exasperated Dead Eyes out into the hall.  
  
The moment the door clicked shut, Natasha leapt into action. She was across the desk before Faulkner knew what was happening and cracked the woman’s head once firmly against the mahogany, neatly knocking her unconscious. Natasha then fished Faulkner’s keys out of her pocket, locked the office door, and lowered the blinds on the windows.  
  
Then she retrieved zip ties and a gag from a hidden compartment in her briefcase and secured Faulkner’s hands and feet to her desk chair, stuffing the gag into her mouth.  
  
Faulkner was beginning to rouse when Natasha heard the distinct syncopated knock on the door that she and Bucky had designated as their signal. She unlocked the door to let him in and locked it again behind him.  
  
“Our friend?”   
  
“Neutralized,” Bucky said evenly. All traces of Jason were wiped from his face, replaced by the calm, expressionless mask of the Winter Soldier.  
  
Faulker was making muffled noises through the gag, jerking her arms against her restraints, her eyes fearful.  
  
Natasha turned and retook her seat across from the woman. “If I could have your cooperation for a few moments, Ms. Faulkner, I’d be delighted if you could answer a few questions for me.”  
  
Faulkner emitted a muffled shout and looked pointedly downwards.  
  
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t remove your gag yet. Now, first,” Natasha began, unfolding a blueprint of the facility on the desk. “You’re going to direct my friend to the location of your signal scrambler. And if he comes back and tells me he didn’t find it there, there are going to be consequences.” Natasha pulled a wickedly sharp ceramic knife from a thigh holster and placed it pointedly on the desk.  
  
Faulkner’s eyes darted between her and Bucky standing behind her for a few moments, then Natasha read submission in her eyes. Faulkner gestured for the blueprint with her restrained right hand and Natasha held it towards her so she could indicate a location.  
  
Bucky gave the blueprint a long look, then nodded and turned back towards the door.  
  
“I’ll see you at the rendezvous point in twenty-five minutes.”  
  
“Roger that, Jason.”  
  
He flashed her a rakish smirk, then disappeared out the door. Natasha locked it again behind him, then retook her seat across from Faulkner.  
  
“You’ve been with BFRC for fifteen years, haven’t you Ms. Faulkner?” Natasha began gently. Faulkner nodded stiffly. “Fifteen years ago, BFRC was the leading provider of non-toxic dyes for children’s toys. And now you’re supplying suspension compounds for biological weapons for a shadowy non-governmental organization. How did that happen? Don’t answer; I know.” Natasha sighed. “First it’s just a few thousand gallons and a couple Hydra agents here for oversight. Then there’s more money, and there’s another few thousand gallons, and a dozen Hydra agents. Then there’s a recession and the stock prices fall and you need a reliable source of revenue, so it’s easy to just let them take the place over.”  
  
She leaned forward. Tears were welling in Faulkner’s gray eyes. “What if I told you there was a way to extricate yourself and your company from this? To make it so you’re proud of your job again?” Natasha pulled a document from her briefcase. “This is a signed and  notarized contract from Tony Stark himself promising that if you disclose the location of Hydra’s production facility to me, BFRC will be made an exclusive supplier for Stark Industries. In addition, the Avengers will offer their protection to the company and its employees from any reprisals by Hydra.”  
  
Faulkner made noise of disbelief. “No, really, it’s true,” said Natasha, flipping a few pages through the contract to show Tony’s signature, which was a little caricature of the Iron Man helmet.  
  
The executive just looked perplexed. Natasha cast a pointed look at her knife before leaning forward and removing the gag from Faulkner’s mouth.  
  
Faulkner licked her dry lips, then spoke quietly. “Even if you’re telling the truth, how are the Avengers supposed to protect me from them? Unless Captain America moves into my guest bedroom, there’s no way you can promise me that.  
  
“Well,” Natasha said, shrugging. “The alternative is that you don’t tell me the location of Hydra’s production facility and I kill you today, right here in your office. I don’t think either of us would like that. And I promise you that if you make the better choice, Hydra will be too distracted to care much about taking revenge on you.”  
  
Faulkner was silent for a long moment, but Natasha knew that she had already decided.

* * *

 

Three minutes later, after Faulkner had pointed Natasha to a file in her desk containing the location and schematics of the Hydra facility and Natasha had freed her from her restraints, Natasha heard the quiet static of her earpiece coming to life. The scrambler must be down. Bucky’s voice soon followed.  
  
“Target destroyed. Proceeding to—“ Then there was a grunt as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him, and the sound of a struggle. Before she knew what she was doing, Natasha was out the door and walking fast towards the location of the scrambler, the files safely stowed inside her briefcase.  
  
It was two floors up and on the other side of the factory in a utility room, and she heard the fight before she saw it. Somehow Dead-Eyes had escaped from wherever Bucky had hidden him and caught him by surprise. The lower half of Bucky’s shirt was soaked with blood from an injury to his torso somewhere and was struggling as Dead-Eyes forced him down onto the steel grating that made up the floor. Clearly there was more to Mr. Stone than met the eye because even Bucky’s metal arm was having trouble holding back the scrap of twisted metal Dead-Eyes was using as a knife. Luckily, Dead-Eyes’ back was to the door.  
  
Natasha leapt onto his back and hooked one arm under his chin, jerking his head back and pulling him away from Bucky. Dead-Eyes reeled backwards, trying to pull her off of him. Just as he draw back his arm to jab the metal shard into her side, Natasha vaulted forward off of him, flipped and landed tidily in a crouch.  
  
Dead-Eyes, who couldn’t halt the stabbing motion of his arm in time, stabbed the metal shard into his own head. His flat eyes widened and he reeled for a moment before advancing towards Natasha, enraged. His hands were about to wrap around her neck when there was a metallic “thonk” and he froze in place for a moment before collapsing onto the ground. Bucky stood behind him, having used his left fist like a hammer to drive the metal shard the rest of the way into Dead-Eyes’ head.  
  
“I thought you neutralized him,” Natasha accused.   
  
“I did.” Bucky winced, opening his shirt to inspect his injury. “That guy wasn't human.”  
  
“Maybe this is what Hydra’s biological weapon does when it works.” Natasha inspected Dead-Eyes’ body as Bucky tore a makeshift bandage from his undershirt and secured it against the ragged gash near the bottom of his ribs. “In Ukraine I only ever saw the bodies of the failures.”  
  
“They were the lucky ones,” Bucky said grimly, buttoning his shirt again.  
  
With a firm chop, Natasha cut off one of Dead-Eyes’ fingers and put it in the briefcase with the files. Bucky cast her a bemused look.  
  
“Come on,” said Natasha. “Let’s hide this body.”

* * *

 

Once Dead-Eyes was firmly wedged behind a water heater, Natasha pulled out her earpiece, which doubled as a camera, and carefully began photographing the files on the Hydra facility, sending them to Tony.  
  
“You get those, Stark?”  
  
“Excellent shot composition, Agent Romanoff.” From the background noise, it sounded like he was already in the air. "Can I ask, though, about the choice to include the severed finger? I mean, it’s very avant garde and emotionally evocative, but—“  
  
“We got them, Nat,” Steve’s voice cut in, exasperated. “We’re on our way. Does Hydra know we’re coming?”  
  
Natasha and Bucky both looked at Dead-Eyes, wondering if he’d alerted anyone before he’d found Bucky.  
  
“Probably not?” Natasha said.  
  
“70-30,” Bucky added helpfully.  
  
“Well, get out of there. We’ll meet you back at the tower.”  
  
Bucky buttoned his jacket, managing to mostly conceal his bloody shirt, while Natasha consulted the blueprint of the factory again.  
  
“Ready?” She asked, straightening her wig. Bucky nodded, and they slipped back out into the hallway, walking with purpose towards the building’s loading dock.  
  
A few people they passed cast them curious glances, but none gave any indication an alarm had been raised.  
  
Two armed guards were posted at the door to the loading dock. Natasha and Bucky continued walking steadily down the hallway towards them. Natasha began dictating a memo to Bucky, who pretended to write it down on a notepad. Just as they drew even with the guards, Natasha spun and kicked the first guard into the wall while Bucky delivered a punishing haymaker to the second. Both guards slumped to the floor, unconscious.  
  
Bucky hissed, pressing a hand to his side, blood beginning to slowly creep up above the lapel of his jacket.  
  
Natasha retrieved the keys to the loading dock from the first guard’s belt and they went inside.  
  
A garbage truck was idling just outside. Their driver from before stuck his head out the driver’s side window and waved in greeting, then opened up the door on the back of the truck. Natasha and Bucky jumped in and wedged themselves in amongst the trash bags. The door to the truck slid closed again, leaving them in the unpleasant-smelling darkness. A moment later, the truck began to move.  
  
“So, what do you think of your first mission as an Avenger?” Natasha asked wryly.  
  
“It’s extremely glamorous,” Bucky drawled.

* * *

 

After a short but bumpy ride, the truck stopped and the door opened again. The driver helped them out. They were in an empty lot near some woods and their original car, thankfully, was waiting for them.  
  
They climbed in, and Natasha immediately removed her wig, mask, and shoes with a sigh before helping Bucky out of his jacket and setting about exchanging his makeshift bandage for a real one from the car’s first aid kit.  
  
The bleeding had stopped again thanks to his super-soldier healing abilities, so all she really needed to do was clean it and bind it up tightly.   
  
“You can’t get tetanus, I hope,” she said. “Because who knows where he got that piece of metal he was fighting with.”  
  
“It’s never been a problem in the past.” To his credit, he barely flinched when she doused the wound with rubbing alcohol.  
  
“There,” she said as she finished taping the bandage. She glanced up at him and realized he was staring at her with an inscrutable expression on his face. Her hand lingered on the warm skin of his abdomen a few moments longer than it needed to. She leaned closer to him to whisper into his ear.  
  
“You smell terrible.”  
  
Then she sat back into her seat, laughing and pleasantly buzzed on post-mission adrenaline.  
  
“I know it’s bad form to say this to a girl, but so do you,” Bucky responded with a grin.

* * *

 

The others were already back by the time they returned to Stark tower. Tony was still in his suit, wandering around the observation deck with the helmet open and a celebratory drink in his hand. Everyone looked relatively unscathed compared to Natasha, whose suit had been ruined by a copious amount of unidentifiable garbage truck liquid, and Bucky, who in addition to the bandage and the blood-soaked shirt hanging unbuttoned from his shoulders had spent the second half of the trip home picking rotten peas out of his hair.  
  
“Hey!” Tony cheered when they walked in. “The heroes of the day. I’d offer you a drink, but you’re really stinking up the room and I’d prefer it if you left. Jarvis, have those clothes burned.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“You guys okay?” Steve asked, concerned, when he saw Bucky’s blood.  
  
“Fine,” Bucky waved his hand dismissively.  
  
“So I take it everything went well?” Natasha asked.  
  
“Piece of cake,” Tony said. “They never saw us coming.”  
  
“Great,” said Natasha, reaching into the briefcase. She fished out Dead-Eyes’ finger and slapped it down on Tony’s coffee table.  
  
Clint leaned in to see what it was. “Ew, gross, Tasha.”  
  
She turned to Bruce. “Could you do an analysis on this? It’s from a Hydra operative we suspect was one of the subjects of their biological weapon.”  
  
Bruce put on his glasses and leaned in to examine the finger. “My pleasure."

* * *

 

Natasha returned to the floor Tony insistently referred to as “hers” and took a very thorough shower before donning track pants and a tank top and wandering back to Steve’s apartment. Bucky was fresh from his own shower, shirtless, standing framed in the doorway to the bathroom. He was peeling off the damp bandage again.  
  
“The nerve,” Natasha said as she walked in. “Discarding my hard work already.”  
  
Bucky smiled self-effacingly and turned to show her the wound, which was already closed up and well on its way to being healed.  
  
Natasha smiled wryly and continued her b-line towards him. As she entered the bathroom, he opened his mouth to say something but she continued forward and cut him off with a kiss she’d been thinking about ever since their excursion to the National Zoo three months ago.  
  
He responded immediately and passionately, countering her searing heat with his own, turning and lifting her up onto the bathroom counter. When they finally broke apart, they both were breathing heavily and Bucky’s eyes were almost black with desire. They stared at each other for a long moment before Bucky reached down to pull off her top.  
  
“Wait,” Natasha said, and he froze immediately. “Unless you want Steve walking in on us, we should go to my floor.” Bucky hesitated. Natasha cocked her head. “ _Do_ you want Steve walking in on us?”  
  
“No,” Bucky said quickly, embarrassed. “I was just thinking about how much I’d like it if you lived here.”  
  
Natasha smiled. “Maybe,” she said.

* * *

 

Natasha’s floor was sparsely furnished—apparently to leave room for her own possessions—but the bed was clean and comfortable and after a few ricochets off the walls and door frames leading up to it, that’s where she and Bucky landed.

On the way, he’d finally succeeded in removing her top and she’d gotten his pants unbuttoned. He sucked lingeringly on her right nipple as she gasped and raked her nails across his scalp, mussing his damp hair. He made a low purring sound. After several very pleasant minutes of that, Natasha used her legs to flip them, landing on top of Bucky but carefully avoiding his injury.

  
She hooked her fingers under waistband of his jeans and slowly slid them off his legs. She then proceeded to remove her own pants before crawling back up his body, smiling like a cat who’d just caught a particularly juicy mouse. Neither of them had opted to put on underwear. Bucky, who’d been sitting up on his elbows to watch her, swallowed thickly.  
  
Avoiding his erection for the moment, Natasha began biting and sucking marks into his skin, starting just below his navel and working up his chest in a curving trail. She paused to press several soft kisses to the scarred line where his left arm met his shoulder, at which point he grabbed her and pulled her mouth to his in a searing kiss.  
  
“You’re a drinking fountain in the Sahara, Red,” he said huskily when they broke apart. Natasha laughed uncontrollably, which made Bucky pout a little.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Natasha gasped. “It’s just, there’s this old man—at my diner—and he—never mind.” She kissed him again, thrusting her tongue against his and lowering her hips down to press against his erection. He moaned into her mouth and his fingers gripped her ass, holding her against him.  
  
This time he flipped them and landed beside her, propping himself up on his left arm and letting his right hand wander slowly down her body in one long, lingering caress. He touched both the puckered gunshot wound scars on her shoulder and abdomen with something like an apology and she knew she’d already forgiven him.   
  
He traced his fingers feather-light up the inside of her thigh and she spread her legs languorously in response. He smiled like a kid in a candy shop as he brought his hand to folds and slid one finger up and down them slowly, spreading her wetness (god help her, she was really, _really_ wet). She moaned and flexed her hips in search of more contact and he obliged, pressing his whole hand to her cunt and finding her clit with his thumb. She let out a soft cry and gripped the sheets as he worked her, teetering towards an orgasm.  
  
Bucky growled and swiftly replaced his hand with his mouth, alternately thrusting his tongue into her and sucking her clit until she was coming hard against him, her hands gripping his hair and holding him to her until she came down. When she came back to herself and opened her eyes, he was propped up on an elbow between her legs, watching her.  
  
“That was nice."  
  
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice sounding a little strangled.  
  
“Come here,” she said huskily. He climbed back up her body in a flash and met her lips. While they kissed, she reached between them and found his dick, stroking it firmly a few times. He grunted into her mouth then broke away to look as she lined him up and then lifted her hips to take him.  
  
He slid home with ease and let out a ragged breath as she shifted to find a comfortable position, wrapping her legs around his waist.  
  
She looked up at his face, tense with self-control, and nodded. He let go of the reins and and began thrusting into her with a near punishing rhythm. In short order, his thrusts started becoming uneven and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, pushing deep into her a few more times before he came, muffling his sharp cry in her hair. He collapsed on top of her, boneless, for a moment before summoning his strength and rolling off of her.  
  
“Sorry. That was fast, wasn’t it,” he said hoarsely. “It’s been a pretty long time.”  
  
“Hey, no complaints here,” Natasha replied, stretching languorously and pressing herself against his side. “So, first time since 1945, huh? How do I stack up against those grateful liberated French girls?”  
  
He turned his head to look at her, screwed up his face in mock consideration and said. “Ehhh…”  
  
She punched him playfully (well, playfully for them—others might call it painfully) on the shoulder and settled back against him, hooking a leg around his and splaying a hand over his chest possessively. He wrapped his right arm around her waist.  
  
“You were amazing today,” he murmured. “You're always amazing.”  
  
“That's my job,” she said sleepily, her eyes closing.  
  
“No, not just that,” he insisted. “With me. You make it…easier. To be here.”  
  
She cracked her eyes open and craned her neck to see his face. He was staring at her intensely as if trying to convey his feelings through sheer force of will. She smiled to let him know she understood, then rested her head on his shoulder again.   
  
“You’re welcome, James."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is consistent in that no chapter even vaguely resembles another, so I'm kind of into that. Definitely did not intend for it to get this sexy, but to be honest, I don't have that much of a problem with it.
> 
> This may or may not be the end, depending on whether or not I have any other ideas. 
> 
> FIN (?????)
> 
> Addendum: I had to change the title today because I realized there was a Bucky fic called "Sugar In My Bowl" (god damn it). If you're confused, that's why. Probably. Maybe you have other problems. I don't know your deal.


End file.
